Oh yes...the blog. Pardon my lack of posts, however my writing attention has been elsewhere at the moment. I just completed a short Zombie movie script that a friend and I hope to make here before I come home, which is just two short months away! This time here has been pretty amazing and with two months left I feel like there is still much more to come.
Last night I went to yoga class with Carolyn. She loves yoga and goes twice a week, so for Carolyn's birthday week, I went to class with her. Got some good breathing in and realized I still can't sit cross legged on the floor without my feet falling asleep, but otherwise it was kinda fun. It was 10 middle aged British women a Dane or two, Carolyn and me. When I workout at the gym during the day it is all women as well. Sometimes I feel like Mr. Mom when he makes all his housewife soap opera buddies. Speaking of which, if any body has some All My Children updates go ahead and post them here. Langston, I'm looking at you.
Last weekend we also went to a Pranic Healing meditation to open a Pranic Healing center here in The Gambia. I do find it a strange juxtaposition to be going to yoga classes and passing old men with polio on the street as I do. It's a contradiction that is taking some getting used to. There are people doing very well over here in the developing world and want to live the best way they can. In a way this is a beacon for others to try and do the same, as well it could be looked on as a waste of resources in a climate that needs them badly. But ultimately one must decide for themselves how to best use their resources. People de need to take time for themselves, to center their own souls before they can help others. As well, it's not really anyones responsibility to help others at all. for many expats, seasonal residents and foreign businessmen (who have come to call Gambia home) the money they spend on living here, employing locals, and the taxes they pay is all they feel they need to do for any of the less fortunate. But that's not the only reason why C -class Mercs cruise pass old blind men begging for pennies, their own government cruises past them in stretch Hummer limos. When the Government squanders money on the trappings of dictator life it's hard to want to fork over your hard earned money to be wasted in places it was never intended. An uneducated populace will cheer as the President drives by, what motivation is there to change that?
The good I may do here is only going to last until I leave, and then what? If I give a kid 15 dalasi every day so he can eat (shit, if I could I'd give everyone who asked 100 Dalasi every time) but what does he have when I leave? That's why most agree that education is the only thing that will change the way of life here for the better. The people of the third world must begin to live more than just day to day and plan for their future. The future is a concept that many here don't think about in any way whatsoever, and when the needs of the moment take such precedence it's hard to think about two months or 10 years down the line.
The tourist season is ending and things are getting positively stagnant. Petty theft and muggings go up during these months without the people buying souvenirs and staying in hotels. Many leave the area and work up country in the farms. The very poor that stay, the ones that approach for hand outs are getting much more desperate. The other day I was buying a shirt in the main market for this area. I was trying on some and one kid was helping me, but as I stayed longer a group gathered around me ranging from small boys to men my age. Some had their own shirts and were trying to interject on the sale of the guy I was dealing with. Some just wanting to be in on the bargaining tell my the price I was proffered was very good or telling me where I could go to find better shirts. In the end I bought two shirts and was trying to leave when the group around me wanted me to buy whatever they happened to have on them. One man who was "helping" the kid I bought from asked me for money for food. I said I didn't have any, which was true at this point. I only had a 100D note and wasn't going to give it all to a strong man my age. He pleaded that he helped the boy sell me my shirts and even ran off to find another size for me. It was the desperate pleading of a child who demands an allowance because he cleaned his room the other day. I had 4 kids around me waiting for their turn to ask me for money so I declined this man. Then another man walked up with god awful t-shirts that were all too small for me. when I told him I already bought my shirts and was leaving he pulled out one more, and offered it to me for very cheap. this one I kinda liked, I bought the shirt because he looked real hungry and he was working for his money. Then I gave the leftover money to the kids who blessed me. I rode off as more people were trying to get my attention. It is a scene that happens evertime a white person goes into a market like this and I don't have any ill feelings to any of the people who pestered me. I did go through a period of annoyance when people would approach us non-stop not letting me even finish a sentence to the person I was talking to, but I've changed that attitude, I know where the motivation lies.
It makes me feel good giving money to kids. The other day I gave 25D to a group of four kids and by the look on their faces you would have thought I just handed them 1000 Pounds. They ran out of there faster than the Olympic torch through San Francisco. But I know I'm only helping for one day. One day at a time may work for drunks but not for life, not when crops can fail or the tourists can leave. One needs a plan for the future, that's why any and all charity groups not concerned with education are pointless. they are a band-aid on a fracture, like trying to rub 'Tussin' into the bone. A quick fix in a system that loves to be broken.
Africa is fucked right now, and through my experience it can only be helped by the people here helping themselves. We can give them aid from the west but if the people who plan to live here forever don't right their own ship then there will always be too many begging kids in the market instead of in school where they belong.
I don't have all the answers, I think the answers will be addressed by the people here, on their terms, when it is time. Reparations from the west are necessary, but given the way it is now it's just keeping that band-aid in place and letting things fester. The leaders of these countries need to think of a time without aid and strive for it, or step down and defer to someone who will, but that's not too likely. Dictators do love that position.
-bbb
Monday, May 5, 2008
Thursday, March 20, 2008
The Times I’ve Seen Accidents in The Gambia
I’ve only seen three mentionable accidents so far. The first I didn’t actually observe happening, but came upon the scene right after. The accident was a seemingly harmless fender bender, so it looked to us as we drove by, but that didn’t stop a crowd of people from forming around the cars as the two drivers discussed the accident. There was a mob of people yelling and pointing every which way each with their own version of events and eyewitness account. I feel like this was a very African occurrence, it was an event that definitely would not have happened at home. It made me feel very foreign, which is exactly what I am looking for on this journey.
The next time I saw an accident I was walking on a very busy road in Westfield near Serrekunda when I saw a man riding a ten-speed bicycle the wrong way down a divided main thoroughfare. He dodged around a parked truck a move that put him in the middle of the street and when he came back around the rear of the truck he slammed right into a young woman who was walking across the street. He smacked into her so hard that, simultaneously, she dropped to the ground, her hair extensions shot off her head, and her flip-flop popped off. He didn’t even fall off his bike. She stood up and the man apologized for hitting her and went over and picked up her hair extensions and then came back and handed them to her. He apologized again and rode off. She hadn’t even moved from where she had been hit before he was already gone. She limped to the side of the street and as she began walking to the curb she noticed her flip flop was busted so she had to now walk with one shoe off to the side where she composed herself, put her hair in her purse for safe keeping and was gone. That accident would also not have resolved itself like that in America like it did here in Gambia, insurance would be claimed, perhaps a lawyer would be consulted, hopefully for free of course. However, in a country where no one has any money then there is nothing really to do but smile, or grimace, and go on your way.
The third accident happened right in front of Carolyn and myself and involved a turning tour bus and the taxi we were about to get into. I opened the back door and was holding it for Carolyn when the door was no longer in my hand and the car was no longer in front of us. It had moved, through no decision of its own, ten feet ahead of me and into another cab parked on the side of the road. This second collision almost delegged a young man. However, with amazing agility he leapt out of the way right before he was turned into the meat in a cab sandwich. All this happened because a tour bus turning a corner too sharply, only going about a mile an hour, hit the rear of the taxi. There were startled Danes looking feverishly out of the window of the bus and saw the tour guide jump out and barely spent a minute with the driver before she hopped back on and the bus which continued on its way. As soon as this happened everyone even remotely near this scene began mobbing around the car. Leading Carolyn away from the accident I said, “Let’s walk this way right now,” but she insisted on giving the driver her mobile number and then later made a statement to a “policeman” who called. They wanted her to meet them somewhere but she told them she wasn’t in the area. Like we’re going to walk straight into some kind of shakedown – I don’t think so.
From what I have been told when a minor accident occurs, and the people involved have decided who is to blame, they will go together to a mechanic and the person at fault will pay the bill for the other car’s damages. I guess that is just easier than trying to get money from the state run insurance. Which may not exactly function like insurance back home. Or may not function at all.
BBB
The next time I saw an accident I was walking on a very busy road in Westfield near Serrekunda when I saw a man riding a ten-speed bicycle the wrong way down a divided main thoroughfare. He dodged around a parked truck a move that put him in the middle of the street and when he came back around the rear of the truck he slammed right into a young woman who was walking across the street. He smacked into her so hard that, simultaneously, she dropped to the ground, her hair extensions shot off her head, and her flip-flop popped off. He didn’t even fall off his bike. She stood up and the man apologized for hitting her and went over and picked up her hair extensions and then came back and handed them to her. He apologized again and rode off. She hadn’t even moved from where she had been hit before he was already gone. She limped to the side of the street and as she began walking to the curb she noticed her flip flop was busted so she had to now walk with one shoe off to the side where she composed herself, put her hair in her purse for safe keeping and was gone. That accident would also not have resolved itself like that in America like it did here in Gambia, insurance would be claimed, perhaps a lawyer would be consulted, hopefully for free of course. However, in a country where no one has any money then there is nothing really to do but smile, or grimace, and go on your way.
The third accident happened right in front of Carolyn and myself and involved a turning tour bus and the taxi we were about to get into. I opened the back door and was holding it for Carolyn when the door was no longer in my hand and the car was no longer in front of us. It had moved, through no decision of its own, ten feet ahead of me and into another cab parked on the side of the road. This second collision almost delegged a young man. However, with amazing agility he leapt out of the way right before he was turned into the meat in a cab sandwich. All this happened because a tour bus turning a corner too sharply, only going about a mile an hour, hit the rear of the taxi. There were startled Danes looking feverishly out of the window of the bus and saw the tour guide jump out and barely spent a minute with the driver before she hopped back on and the bus which continued on its way. As soon as this happened everyone even remotely near this scene began mobbing around the car. Leading Carolyn away from the accident I said, “Let’s walk this way right now,” but she insisted on giving the driver her mobile number and then later made a statement to a “policeman” who called. They wanted her to meet them somewhere but she told them she wasn’t in the area. Like we’re going to walk straight into some kind of shakedown – I don’t think so.
From what I have been told when a minor accident occurs, and the people involved have decided who is to blame, they will go together to a mechanic and the person at fault will pay the bill for the other car’s damages. I guess that is just easier than trying to get money from the state run insurance. Which may not exactly function like insurance back home. Or may not function at all.
BBB
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Casamance On The Lifan LF125GY
The Lifan LF125GY is an Enduro or Dual Purpose motorbike, which means it is designed for on and off-road riding. Lifan is the largest motorbike manufacturer in Communist China selling all over the world. It’s 125 designation means it has pretty much the smallest engine a bike can have. In the world of smallness it goes; 125cc, 100cc, moped, ten-speed, jogging. A 125 is big enough to do anything one needs to do around here and is, by far, the number one sized bike in use in the third world. Large street bikes 650 and bigger, like I had in CO, are virtually non-existent in these parts, but I do see them from time to time.
I had just finished breaking mine in when we left for the southern Senegalese region of Casamance. We packed it to the max and hopped on for a 550 kilometer round trip ride to Ziguinchor and Cap Skirring where we stayed a few nights. You may know Casamance for the rebel fighting up until about 8 years ago. The rebels fight with the government not wanting to be apart of the French speaking northern area run out of Dakar. It seems everyone in Africa doesn’t want to speak a colonial language or become Muslim; one can hardly blame them. Senegal does seem to have their country in a bit of better order than The Gambia though; the roads are paved for one, and named too. The ride was beautiful; it spanned from large flat open savannah to river plain swamps with dried rice patties waiting for rainy season.
The food in Casamance is really not note worthy at all except to note how much it sucks. So I shall do so here; it sucks, which is odd for a former French colony. The food in Morocco is magnificent. Anyway, the ride was as wonderful and, as I could have expected, bumpy and tough. In Africa you need some kind of off-roading potential in a vehicle if you ever want to travel outside the cities. The road from Brikama to the border is basically a bumpy dirt track with a thoroughly depleted and potholed road next to it. What happens in Africa is a road will be built and then over the course a few years it will become undrivable due to the huge potholes. Thereafter a dirt or sand track will be carved out traveling parallel to the road occasionally crossing it or riding on a clean stretch of it. On our 8 hour bus trip to and from Dakar much of it was spent in these sand tracks twisting back and forth crossing the road and down into trails.
This road was thoroughly gutted out; foot high bumps that to the best of my experience reminded me of a torn up mogul run on a ski slope that hadn’t seen new snow in weeks. We zig-zagged at about 10 miles an hour while I tried to find the shallowest ravine to ride into. Every now and then I would yell out, “big one!” so Carolyn could get ready for a big drop, which at times were unavoidable. It was grand! To have to be riding like this in order to get to our destination was part of the exhilaration of making this trip. It is daily life for many and completely foreign to me, the reason for the journey. For about 30 kilometers we were weaving around potholes and gutted out dirt bumps. I have some video of us doing this that Carolyn took by wrapping her arms around my chest and holding the camera. If I can get to a high-speed internet service I will put it on line, although the video doesn’t do it justice all, one can’t see how big the holes are in the road or how much we go up and down on the bike.
The only other traffic going in or out of Casamance this way were a few buses (like the ones going to Dakar), other bikes, and very few cars. While riding on this road a police convey transporting somebody important came at us very fast and Carolyn yelled, “Get over quickly, these things run people right off the road!” She had seen it before. Very quickly a police truck and some other expensive and clean SUVs came racing by and on down the road.
After the road from Brikama we came to the border and in the Immigration office everyone was very pleasant. We paid 50 Dalasi to get the bike into Senegal and then I drank a Coke at the border and rested in the shade by a table where people buy tickets for the next bus leaving for Casamance or north to Banjul. Upon entering I instantly became relieved we weren’t traveling in such a capacity once more. Those buses make my body ache just looking at them, plus, being on the bike was so much apart of the joy of taking this trip. We could pull over in an instant to have a break in the shade and take some pictures. Or we could turn down a road to a village that Carolyn read had local pottery for sale. Which we didn’t find, but we did see a church with goats lying in the shade on the steps. On the way back one was still there so I took a picture of a resting Catholic goat. We passed, villages, graveyards, farms, and shacks that are used for bars, and many small children going to and from school and others everywhere else as well.
We made it to Ziguinchor with no problems other than two very sore butts. The seat on this bike is not very soft. It feels fine for a ride to the store but after getting to Ziguinchor we felt like we just brought the herd through the valley in a cattle drive right out of Lonesome Dove. My ass hurt like I just went to prison and refused to sit with the skinheads. It felt as if the seat was made of chrome steel, and we with asses of glass. I kept telling myself that it was just the breaking in period, butts harden under such stress and soon, I assumed, the pain would stop and we wouldn’t feel so bad. It’s getting broke into the saddle that we needed to do and I was sure it would be just a day or two more until we felt fine. Besides, we had a nice pool at this hotel and they even had a platform dive over ten feet tall. Which was kind of scary for this 34 year old. When I was little I would have flipped backwards off the thing just to see at which angle I could land on my head. I was saying each time, that the next time, I would do a Can Opener or a Sleeper to see how big I could get the splash and then I would climb the slippery, thin, metal stairs back to the top, by the time I got there I was already scared so I would just end up jumping off normally. Each time I jumped I expected the water to hit my feet long before it did and when it finally did it hit much harder than I wanted it to. It was a bit of terrifying fun, and quite a rest after the 150 kilometers to Ziguinchor. After hot showers we went out to eat and I had a horrible pizza that was almost inedible and Carolyn had the Chicken Yassa, which was hard as a rock. We drank some beer there and set off to a bar called Clara’s, which we chose because it has the same name as my Mom. We had a few drinks there and then went back to the hotel to sleep. No one was at the desk, like they said they would be, so I jumped over the counter and took our keys off the holder as another couple was coming to the desk, so I grabbed theirs too. We joked that they weren’t staying at the hotel.
The next day we rose and took hot showers. Had our complementary French breakfast, loaded up the bike and set of for Cap Skirring, on the coast, for some beach relaxation. Cap Skirring is small and the places we wanted to stay were a bit out of our price range so we stayed at the home of an old Frenchmen who rented out rooms. After finding this we rode around the whole area looking for a cheap place to stay closer to the beach and then had bone filled whole fish at a joint on the strip, Tired, we went back to the house we liked from earlier. Our room was very clean, so all was well. Once we took hot showers we had enough time to take a swim and stroll on the beach so we walked until we found a secluded spot and swam naked in the ocean while the sun set over the warm tropical water. Then we walked back, took hot showers and went to dinner. Dinner was pretty bad, I had a forgettable dish of some kind and Carolyn had something she didn’t like very much. We were beginning to see a trend in Casamance.
During our walk on the beach Carolyn asked a man to give us a lesson, and the next morning we met him at 10am for our two-hour lesson. He only spoke French so Carolyn translated on the beach while he was going over how to stand and stuff. Once in the water it was only the two of us, so my first surf lesson was in a language I don’t understand. It didn’t matter too much, he would point at a wave and turn me around and I would catch the wave start to stand up and fall over to the left. I did this for about 30 minutes and was about to collapse when Carolyn came out and took the board for a while. She stood up real quick and was thrown over almost as quickly. But she did have one wave where she surfed it for a few good seconds before falling. I kind of stood up once but was leaning to far back and fell over instantly. Not the beginning to my surfing life I had hoped for. Carolyn, however, is now my certified surfer girl and I could not, in my wildest dreams, be any happier. I ended up with a pretty decent sunburn that day, the first since coming to Africa, all down my back and neck.
We did the trip home in one long sore day back the way we came. We stopped and took many pictures and once, in the shade by the side of the road, we ate some apples. After a five-hour ride we reached the border and we stopped and ate again. I played checkers on a huge board that sits in between the laps of the opponents. There were a bunch of guys all sitting around playing so I asked about the game and before you know it I was in there. They play for money, but the game I played was just for fun. Before me sat a young man wearing a Yankees cap in a Vinny Testaverde New York Jets jersey. His wardrobe gave me an even greater sense of satisfaction when I beat him; I won that game for the American League East. And as fast as my victory came, we were gone. Back across the bumpy road and on home, 550 kilometers later.
BBB
**********
Appendix
This week I read a bit of news that should be reported here:
“Some 40 vehicles ambushed by unidentified armed individuals in Casamance
According to the Army's Direction of public information (Dirpa), some 30 unidentified armed individuals dressed in military fatigues ambushed on 27 February some 40 vehicles between Badiouré and Diabir, six kilometres from the town of Bignona, in the west of Casamance. The assailants stole passengers' valuables and money.”
We passed through Bignona twice and had lunch there on the way to Ziguinchor, we came back on the 23rd, two days before this orchestrated attack. Two days later and my motorbike would now be in use by the Movement of Democratic Forces of Casamance. They luckily didn’t attack on the road we rode back on, but damn close.
I had just finished breaking mine in when we left for the southern Senegalese region of Casamance. We packed it to the max and hopped on for a 550 kilometer round trip ride to Ziguinchor and Cap Skirring where we stayed a few nights. You may know Casamance for the rebel fighting up until about 8 years ago. The rebels fight with the government not wanting to be apart of the French speaking northern area run out of Dakar. It seems everyone in Africa doesn’t want to speak a colonial language or become Muslim; one can hardly blame them. Senegal does seem to have their country in a bit of better order than The Gambia though; the roads are paved for one, and named too. The ride was beautiful; it spanned from large flat open savannah to river plain swamps with dried rice patties waiting for rainy season.
The food in Casamance is really not note worthy at all except to note how much it sucks. So I shall do so here; it sucks, which is odd for a former French colony. The food in Morocco is magnificent. Anyway, the ride was as wonderful and, as I could have expected, bumpy and tough. In Africa you need some kind of off-roading potential in a vehicle if you ever want to travel outside the cities. The road from Brikama to the border is basically a bumpy dirt track with a thoroughly depleted and potholed road next to it. What happens in Africa is a road will be built and then over the course a few years it will become undrivable due to the huge potholes. Thereafter a dirt or sand track will be carved out traveling parallel to the road occasionally crossing it or riding on a clean stretch of it. On our 8 hour bus trip to and from Dakar much of it was spent in these sand tracks twisting back and forth crossing the road and down into trails.
This road was thoroughly gutted out; foot high bumps that to the best of my experience reminded me of a torn up mogul run on a ski slope that hadn’t seen new snow in weeks. We zig-zagged at about 10 miles an hour while I tried to find the shallowest ravine to ride into. Every now and then I would yell out, “big one!” so Carolyn could get ready for a big drop, which at times were unavoidable. It was grand! To have to be riding like this in order to get to our destination was part of the exhilaration of making this trip. It is daily life for many and completely foreign to me, the reason for the journey. For about 30 kilometers we were weaving around potholes and gutted out dirt bumps. I have some video of us doing this that Carolyn took by wrapping her arms around my chest and holding the camera. If I can get to a high-speed internet service I will put it on line, although the video doesn’t do it justice all, one can’t see how big the holes are in the road or how much we go up and down on the bike.
The only other traffic going in or out of Casamance this way were a few buses (like the ones going to Dakar), other bikes, and very few cars. While riding on this road a police convey transporting somebody important came at us very fast and Carolyn yelled, “Get over quickly, these things run people right off the road!” She had seen it before. Very quickly a police truck and some other expensive and clean SUVs came racing by and on down the road.
After the road from Brikama we came to the border and in the Immigration office everyone was very pleasant. We paid 50 Dalasi to get the bike into Senegal and then I drank a Coke at the border and rested in the shade by a table where people buy tickets for the next bus leaving for Casamance or north to Banjul. Upon entering I instantly became relieved we weren’t traveling in such a capacity once more. Those buses make my body ache just looking at them, plus, being on the bike was so much apart of the joy of taking this trip. We could pull over in an instant to have a break in the shade and take some pictures. Or we could turn down a road to a village that Carolyn read had local pottery for sale. Which we didn’t find, but we did see a church with goats lying in the shade on the steps. On the way back one was still there so I took a picture of a resting Catholic goat. We passed, villages, graveyards, farms, and shacks that are used for bars, and many small children going to and from school and others everywhere else as well.
We made it to Ziguinchor with no problems other than two very sore butts. The seat on this bike is not very soft. It feels fine for a ride to the store but after getting to Ziguinchor we felt like we just brought the herd through the valley in a cattle drive right out of Lonesome Dove. My ass hurt like I just went to prison and refused to sit with the skinheads. It felt as if the seat was made of chrome steel, and we with asses of glass. I kept telling myself that it was just the breaking in period, butts harden under such stress and soon, I assumed, the pain would stop and we wouldn’t feel so bad. It’s getting broke into the saddle that we needed to do and I was sure it would be just a day or two more until we felt fine. Besides, we had a nice pool at this hotel and they even had a platform dive over ten feet tall. Which was kind of scary for this 34 year old. When I was little I would have flipped backwards off the thing just to see at which angle I could land on my head. I was saying each time, that the next time, I would do a Can Opener or a Sleeper to see how big I could get the splash and then I would climb the slippery, thin, metal stairs back to the top, by the time I got there I was already scared so I would just end up jumping off normally. Each time I jumped I expected the water to hit my feet long before it did and when it finally did it hit much harder than I wanted it to. It was a bit of terrifying fun, and quite a rest after the 150 kilometers to Ziguinchor. After hot showers we went out to eat and I had a horrible pizza that was almost inedible and Carolyn had the Chicken Yassa, which was hard as a rock. We drank some beer there and set off to a bar called Clara’s, which we chose because it has the same name as my Mom. We had a few drinks there and then went back to the hotel to sleep. No one was at the desk, like they said they would be, so I jumped over the counter and took our keys off the holder as another couple was coming to the desk, so I grabbed theirs too. We joked that they weren’t staying at the hotel.
The next day we rose and took hot showers. Had our complementary French breakfast, loaded up the bike and set of for Cap Skirring, on the coast, for some beach relaxation. Cap Skirring is small and the places we wanted to stay were a bit out of our price range so we stayed at the home of an old Frenchmen who rented out rooms. After finding this we rode around the whole area looking for a cheap place to stay closer to the beach and then had bone filled whole fish at a joint on the strip, Tired, we went back to the house we liked from earlier. Our room was very clean, so all was well. Once we took hot showers we had enough time to take a swim and stroll on the beach so we walked until we found a secluded spot and swam naked in the ocean while the sun set over the warm tropical water. Then we walked back, took hot showers and went to dinner. Dinner was pretty bad, I had a forgettable dish of some kind and Carolyn had something she didn’t like very much. We were beginning to see a trend in Casamance.
During our walk on the beach Carolyn asked a man to give us a lesson, and the next morning we met him at 10am for our two-hour lesson. He only spoke French so Carolyn translated on the beach while he was going over how to stand and stuff. Once in the water it was only the two of us, so my first surf lesson was in a language I don’t understand. It didn’t matter too much, he would point at a wave and turn me around and I would catch the wave start to stand up and fall over to the left. I did this for about 30 minutes and was about to collapse when Carolyn came out and took the board for a while. She stood up real quick and was thrown over almost as quickly. But she did have one wave where she surfed it for a few good seconds before falling. I kind of stood up once but was leaning to far back and fell over instantly. Not the beginning to my surfing life I had hoped for. Carolyn, however, is now my certified surfer girl and I could not, in my wildest dreams, be any happier. I ended up with a pretty decent sunburn that day, the first since coming to Africa, all down my back and neck.
We did the trip home in one long sore day back the way we came. We stopped and took many pictures and once, in the shade by the side of the road, we ate some apples. After a five-hour ride we reached the border and we stopped and ate again. I played checkers on a huge board that sits in between the laps of the opponents. There were a bunch of guys all sitting around playing so I asked about the game and before you know it I was in there. They play for money, but the game I played was just for fun. Before me sat a young man wearing a Yankees cap in a Vinny Testaverde New York Jets jersey. His wardrobe gave me an even greater sense of satisfaction when I beat him; I won that game for the American League East. And as fast as my victory came, we were gone. Back across the bumpy road and on home, 550 kilometers later.
BBB
**********
Appendix
This week I read a bit of news that should be reported here:
“Some 40 vehicles ambushed by unidentified armed individuals in Casamance
According to the Army's Direction of public information (Dirpa), some 30 unidentified armed individuals dressed in military fatigues ambushed on 27 February some 40 vehicles between Badiouré and Diabir, six kilometres from the town of Bignona, in the west of Casamance. The assailants stole passengers' valuables and money.”
We passed through Bignona twice and had lunch there on the way to Ziguinchor, we came back on the 23rd, two days before this orchestrated attack. Two days later and my motorbike would now be in use by the Movement of Democratic Forces of Casamance. They luckily didn’t attack on the road we rode back on, but damn close.
The Cement Mixer
A foundation is being laid. Into the scoop goes the gravel, sand, mix and water which gets picked up by a hydraulic scoop and thrown into the tumbler. The sand pile sits outside the compound with three people working that area, two young men to shovel sand into a wheelbarrow and one who hauls it around to the scoop attached to the mixer. The gravel pile sits right next to the mixer with two men filling a wheelbarrow and pouring it into the scoop. The bag of mix sits on the other side of the mixer and one guy cuts it open pours it in with the sand, another oversees the operation of the mixer and pours out the cement.
Poured into a wheelbarrow fleet the cement is taken to large holes, the size and depth of a grave. A tree trunk made of rebar extends out of the holes where two men wait for the next load of fresh cement. Like most daily operations in Gambia it’s a symphony of human movement. Each participant filling a vital link in a tremendously long series of events that will culminate in a new building right across from my window where I sit and type, right in front of me, right now. I don’t know when this new building will completely block my view of the road, like the one that just went up right outside the other window in this room, and despite the noise, I will enjoy watching as much of the process as I can. The loss of the view to the road will be tragic though. I have spent so much time sitting here watching the world outside my window. Soon much of that view will be completely blocked. I may have to move the table in the dining area where I can still see our junction.
More rebar just pulled up in a small pickup truck and is now sitting idle waiting to be unloaded. Two men are wrestling in the sand pile, laughing while they wait for their friend to come back with an empty receptacle, to be filled again. As I made some corrections in the paragraph above the rebar trunks were unloaded, the truck is gone and the load is being moved about the site, one per hole. The scoop just lifted a fresh recipe to be mixed. The wheelbarrow full of sand just spilled and must be refilled again. It’s done so with a smile and a laugh, all day long.
BBB
Poured into a wheelbarrow fleet the cement is taken to large holes, the size and depth of a grave. A tree trunk made of rebar extends out of the holes where two men wait for the next load of fresh cement. Like most daily operations in Gambia it’s a symphony of human movement. Each participant filling a vital link in a tremendously long series of events that will culminate in a new building right across from my window where I sit and type, right in front of me, right now. I don’t know when this new building will completely block my view of the road, like the one that just went up right outside the other window in this room, and despite the noise, I will enjoy watching as much of the process as I can. The loss of the view to the road will be tragic though. I have spent so much time sitting here watching the world outside my window. Soon much of that view will be completely blocked. I may have to move the table in the dining area where I can still see our junction.
More rebar just pulled up in a small pickup truck and is now sitting idle waiting to be unloaded. Two men are wrestling in the sand pile, laughing while they wait for their friend to come back with an empty receptacle, to be filled again. As I made some corrections in the paragraph above the rebar trunks were unloaded, the truck is gone and the load is being moved about the site, one per hole. The scoop just lifted a fresh recipe to be mixed. The wheelbarrow full of sand just spilled and must be refilled again. It’s done so with a smile and a laugh, all day long.
BBB
Holding Cell
In The Gambia you must go to a local police station to apply for a driver’s license. I was told to go to the station near the beach and fish market in the resort area of Cape Point. This is just past the Internet café that advertises, “Probably one of the best Internet cafés in Gambia,” I love that sign. At least they’re being honest, but come on guys, sell yourselves a little!
I entered into the station immediately into a room that was divided in half with a holding cell on the right, and a long counter from the cage to the wall on the left. There were about five men in the cell, which extended all the way to the front wall. Upon entering I was standing right next to cell and the people locked up at the same time I was at the counter being helped. In my opinion this is an odd way to set up a room with a holding cell, however, the proximity to the front for the inmates could have some reason for which I just don’t know, and hopefully won’t find out. I asked a young man behind the counter, not wearing a uniform, if I could apply for a license. While answering me a man in the cell started trying to get my attention by whistling at me and saying hey. I was perplexed, I don’t like to ignore people and this young man was trying to get my attention. I decided to talk to the officer instead of trying to carry on two conversations at the same time, one with a policeman and one with a convict.
As I began to respond to the officer who was telling me I was at the wrong station the boy quickly shouted out, “Can you bring us some food?” Now that was a leap! I looked over at him, back to the man behind the counter, and back to the guy in the cell, and then I started to chuckle. I did a real life double take. It was quite confusing for a second, which gave way to humor as I thanked the man behind the counter and laughed as I ran out of there.
I wonder what he was in for, I wonder if the cop slammed a nightstick on the cell and told them to shut up when he was talking, like in a movie. I should have stopped and asked him to tell me his story, but I wanted to get the license done before we left for Casamance and getting anything done here takes five trips so I just had to leave and go to the other station, which had a line out the door for licenses so I gave up utterly defeated. We rode to Casamance anyway and I just used my American license the few times I was asked and everything was fine. On a hot day everything is fine if you just smile a lot and act like you don’t understand, which is good, because most of the time I don’t.
BBB
I entered into the station immediately into a room that was divided in half with a holding cell on the right, and a long counter from the cage to the wall on the left. There were about five men in the cell, which extended all the way to the front wall. Upon entering I was standing right next to cell and the people locked up at the same time I was at the counter being helped. In my opinion this is an odd way to set up a room with a holding cell, however, the proximity to the front for the inmates could have some reason for which I just don’t know, and hopefully won’t find out. I asked a young man behind the counter, not wearing a uniform, if I could apply for a license. While answering me a man in the cell started trying to get my attention by whistling at me and saying hey. I was perplexed, I don’t like to ignore people and this young man was trying to get my attention. I decided to talk to the officer instead of trying to carry on two conversations at the same time, one with a policeman and one with a convict.
As I began to respond to the officer who was telling me I was at the wrong station the boy quickly shouted out, “Can you bring us some food?” Now that was a leap! I looked over at him, back to the man behind the counter, and back to the guy in the cell, and then I started to chuckle. I did a real life double take. It was quite confusing for a second, which gave way to humor as I thanked the man behind the counter and laughed as I ran out of there.
I wonder what he was in for, I wonder if the cop slammed a nightstick on the cell and told them to shut up when he was talking, like in a movie. I should have stopped and asked him to tell me his story, but I wanted to get the license done before we left for Casamance and getting anything done here takes five trips so I just had to leave and go to the other station, which had a line out the door for licenses so I gave up utterly defeated. We rode to Casamance anyway and I just used my American license the few times I was asked and everything was fine. On a hot day everything is fine if you just smile a lot and act like you don’t understand, which is good, because most of the time I don’t.
BBB
Holes
The compound across from my window used to be the site and home of a mechanic, with cars and buses coming and going all the time. It’s about a sixth of an acre walled off with a house at one end and a very large yard facing the main road. One day last week a group of men came in the yard with shovels and began digging holes. Four rows of eight holes each situated in what looked like cemetery plots. I said to Carolyn, “They’re building a cemetery across the street. That’s going to be creepy watching funerals outside our window. Maybe we can videotape them or something.”
The next day I saw a truck come and unload a very large amount of gravel and the obvious dawned on me. The owner must have seen that dirt currently costs more than gravel, so he will dig up the dirt in his yard to sell and replace it with gravel, where it can sit until gravel futures improve and can be sold for cheaper filler, like sand or cork. It’s an inspired plan; exactly what I would have done. But as the days passed I saw that wasn’t it either. He never hauled off the dirt and he never filled in the holes with the gravel, it just sat there.
The other day a truck came by outside the wall and dumped a huge amount of sand. This now represents a second filler where only one was needed in the first place, and yet the holes remain empty! Now they’ve punched a hole in the wall of the compound and are moving equipment inside. I’m hereby at a loss for what could be happening inside this compound. I can’t even guess as to what they could be planning. If only I could think outside the box. That’s it! Perhaps they’re making molds for boxes, small building-like boxes, to hold trinkets and personal items. Seems like a lot of work for just that. It’s most likely something else entirely.
The next day I saw a truck come and unload a very large amount of gravel and the obvious dawned on me. The owner must have seen that dirt currently costs more than gravel, so he will dig up the dirt in his yard to sell and replace it with gravel, where it can sit until gravel futures improve and can be sold for cheaper filler, like sand or cork. It’s an inspired plan; exactly what I would have done. But as the days passed I saw that wasn’t it either. He never hauled off the dirt and he never filled in the holes with the gravel, it just sat there.
The other day a truck came by outside the wall and dumped a huge amount of sand. This now represents a second filler where only one was needed in the first place, and yet the holes remain empty! Now they’ve punched a hole in the wall of the compound and are moving equipment inside. I’m hereby at a loss for what could be happening inside this compound. I can’t even guess as to what they could be planning. If only I could think outside the box. That’s it! Perhaps they’re making molds for boxes, small building-like boxes, to hold trinkets and personal items. Seems like a lot of work for just that. It’s most likely something else entirely.
A Day In The Life
Life is settling in to a predictable groove at this point here in Gambia and I’m getting used to the way life is lived here. At this point I don’t even heat water anymore for my bucket showers. Bucket showers are how we bathe most of the time. Water is not always on and even when it is the pressure is not very good. The water will come out of the faucet but doesn’t have the power to travel the rest of the way up the one-meter tube to come out the showerhead. You can hear it struggling to climb up to glory but it falls short usually with me saying something like, “come on baby, come on…give me some, gimmie some!” However, when pressure is good I love to take cold dripping showers, it comes so close to reminding me of home, and then doesn’t.
I often get up when Carolyn rises to heat some water for her morning bucket and to make her lunch for the day while she is getting ready for work. Then I see her off and will take my shower or perhaps go back to bed for a while. I usually can’t sleep after I get up in the morning so I will often read in bed or simply start my day writing, which I try to do a few hours a day or more. Sometimes I slack off. [hold for laugh]
Once I have bathed and eaten I usually attend to the water necessities of the day. That is the boiling of the drinking water and the filling of the buckets, as well as any dishes that might need cleaning from the night before or breakfast. The water, when on, will only last for the morning so I really need to make sure I get everything squared away before the water is finished. We have three buckets, the largest being just over knee high and stays in the shower room for use there. All showering, hand washing and teeth brushing is done from that bucket when the water is off. The only non-boiled water I put near my mouth is from that bucket when I brush my teeth, but I never swallow. It is a bit off-putting to brush my teeth from the same bucket that I shower from. Every once in a while I will notice soap dripping into it when I scoop the next cup out of it. And I’m sure water whisks off me and back into the bucket when I’m bathing every so often. The next bucket is about half the size of the shower one and rests in the kitchen for use in all water related kitchen activity. I get the water for boiling, cooking and washing dishes from it. It’s the one we keep the cleanest, always washing it out and filling it when it’s completely empty so as to avoid the settling of particles at the bottom, which we have noticed before. Personally I want to get a bigger one for the kitchen and then use this one as a separate, hand and mouth only, bathroom sink bucket. That would make this OCD sufferer a little happier. The last of our buckets is situated in the water closet (toilet only room separate from the shower and sink room). It is the exact size to refill an empty toilet when we have flushed, when the water is off, and find ourselves needing to flush again before the water comes back on. There is a joy of filling a toilet at three in the morning just so I can flush it again and it's something one really needs to experience for their self. Needless to say we are a ‘if it’s yellow let it mellow’ family here in The Gambia, which everyone should be in this crazy world of over population and wasted resources. I’ve never been less wasteful in my life than I am now living in Africa with the world-class poverty everywhere around us.
So now I’m clean, the water is boiling and our buckets are full. Carolyn has long since left for school and I find myself alone until about 3:30. This is usually when I will do my writing, as well as late at night. Sometimes I go outside. Hey, I’m in Africa so I better get out and do stuff or else I might as well be back in America sitting around all day. I love to go to the beach, which is a 14-minute walk from our apartment. Or I might walk to the pool and swim laps. (I am exercising a lot now) Often there is some shopping or errands to run as well during the day, like today when I went, early in the morning, to a photo lab to get pictures for my residency card and then to the police station to apply for a driver’s license. And then to the other police station where all the applications are taken, every task here takes more than one trip or phone call, or location diverted to. It took six trips over three days to the phone company to figure out our internet bill, pay it, and then have it reconnected after we found out we never paid a different, separately billed, fee for over a year.
By the time I’ve done my errands for the day it’s usually near 3:30. I try and make sure I’m home when Carolyn gets off work because we love each other very much and want to smooch and hold each other. After this we might have made previous plans to go to the pool/gym or we might have some shopping to do. Or we might just hang around home, watch movies on the laptop, and do what needs to be done here. Dinner is a particularly special time for us because we love to cook together and have been making some unbelievable food lately. But that is another story.
BBB
I often get up when Carolyn rises to heat some water for her morning bucket and to make her lunch for the day while she is getting ready for work. Then I see her off and will take my shower or perhaps go back to bed for a while. I usually can’t sleep after I get up in the morning so I will often read in bed or simply start my day writing, which I try to do a few hours a day or more. Sometimes I slack off. [hold for laugh]
Once I have bathed and eaten I usually attend to the water necessities of the day. That is the boiling of the drinking water and the filling of the buckets, as well as any dishes that might need cleaning from the night before or breakfast. The water, when on, will only last for the morning so I really need to make sure I get everything squared away before the water is finished. We have three buckets, the largest being just over knee high and stays in the shower room for use there. All showering, hand washing and teeth brushing is done from that bucket when the water is off. The only non-boiled water I put near my mouth is from that bucket when I brush my teeth, but I never swallow. It is a bit off-putting to brush my teeth from the same bucket that I shower from. Every once in a while I will notice soap dripping into it when I scoop the next cup out of it. And I’m sure water whisks off me and back into the bucket when I’m bathing every so often. The next bucket is about half the size of the shower one and rests in the kitchen for use in all water related kitchen activity. I get the water for boiling, cooking and washing dishes from it. It’s the one we keep the cleanest, always washing it out and filling it when it’s completely empty so as to avoid the settling of particles at the bottom, which we have noticed before. Personally I want to get a bigger one for the kitchen and then use this one as a separate, hand and mouth only, bathroom sink bucket. That would make this OCD sufferer a little happier. The last of our buckets is situated in the water closet (toilet only room separate from the shower and sink room). It is the exact size to refill an empty toilet when we have flushed, when the water is off, and find ourselves needing to flush again before the water comes back on. There is a joy of filling a toilet at three in the morning just so I can flush it again and it's something one really needs to experience for their self. Needless to say we are a ‘if it’s yellow let it mellow’ family here in The Gambia, which everyone should be in this crazy world of over population and wasted resources. I’ve never been less wasteful in my life than I am now living in Africa with the world-class poverty everywhere around us.
So now I’m clean, the water is boiling and our buckets are full. Carolyn has long since left for school and I find myself alone until about 3:30. This is usually when I will do my writing, as well as late at night. Sometimes I go outside. Hey, I’m in Africa so I better get out and do stuff or else I might as well be back in America sitting around all day. I love to go to the beach, which is a 14-minute walk from our apartment. Or I might walk to the pool and swim laps. (I am exercising a lot now) Often there is some shopping or errands to run as well during the day, like today when I went, early in the morning, to a photo lab to get pictures for my residency card and then to the police station to apply for a driver’s license. And then to the other police station where all the applications are taken, every task here takes more than one trip or phone call, or location diverted to. It took six trips over three days to the phone company to figure out our internet bill, pay it, and then have it reconnected after we found out we never paid a different, separately billed, fee for over a year.
By the time I’ve done my errands for the day it’s usually near 3:30. I try and make sure I’m home when Carolyn gets off work because we love each other very much and want to smooch and hold each other. After this we might have made previous plans to go to the pool/gym or we might have some shopping to do. Or we might just hang around home, watch movies on the laptop, and do what needs to be done here. Dinner is a particularly special time for us because we love to cook together and have been making some unbelievable food lately. But that is another story.
BBB
Saturday, February 16, 2008
African Dreaming
I’ve never had stranger dreams than the ones I’ve had in Africa. Maybe it’s the low sodium diet or the organic food, but the vivid dreams have just been astounding. Like the one where Carolyn and I are the only passengers on a 747 which is weaving through traffic and stopping, hovering, at traffic lights in a coastal town and then skimming by the cruise ships. Or the one where I am on a pirate ship with four midgets who all want to be the Capitan, a dream right out of the movie Time Bandits, and I haven’t seen that flick in a decade.
I have a clearly stated personal policy, and many of you know this, that I will not buy lottery tickets for other people for the reason that if they should happen to win on a ticket printed just one away from the one I am buying for myself I would simply have to kill myself. I have no problem having other people buy tickets for me but, usually after learning that I won’t reciprocate, people refuse to buy for me anymore, a reverse situation for which I have no problem with. Which brings me to last night’s dream. I am sitting at a long picnic table on the shoulder of the Capitol Beltway eating dinner with a large group in the darkness while cars zip by. To my left my old scoutmaster from Troop 1140 is reading the newspaper and reads allowed the headline, “The Lottery Is Lucky For People Associated With Brad Baldwin.” At which point I become very agitated and demand the reason for this story. So he continues reading and it describes how two people I bought tickets for have recently won big. I demand to know who it is when out of nowhere 70’s funny man Tim Conway, sitting halfway down the table, says he is one of the people. Stunned, I ask how much he won and he tells me it was the “Mega”. It turns out my scoutmaster is the other beneficiary and pocketed a breezy twenty-five grand on a scratcher, a thousand of which he has already given away to a police charity of all places!
I’m so pissed off that I grab a saltshaker off the table and throw it into traffic and it explodes all over the hoods of cars racing around the inner-loop. As I’m turned around, watching the salt flying everywhere, I see my parents driving up behind us and upon exiting the car my mom tries to calm me down. I’m inconsolable; pointing to Tim Conway I exclaim, “Are you kidding me? Dorf on Golf won the mega!”
******
Dear Reader,
If you enjoyed this post and would like to learn more about Emmy Award winning comedian Tim Conway, or would like to purchase his Dorf on Golf videos please visit his website.
I have a clearly stated personal policy, and many of you know this, that I will not buy lottery tickets for other people for the reason that if they should happen to win on a ticket printed just one away from the one I am buying for myself I would simply have to kill myself. I have no problem having other people buy tickets for me but, usually after learning that I won’t reciprocate, people refuse to buy for me anymore, a reverse situation for which I have no problem with. Which brings me to last night’s dream. I am sitting at a long picnic table on the shoulder of the Capitol Beltway eating dinner with a large group in the darkness while cars zip by. To my left my old scoutmaster from Troop 1140 is reading the newspaper and reads allowed the headline, “The Lottery Is Lucky For People Associated With Brad Baldwin.” At which point I become very agitated and demand the reason for this story. So he continues reading and it describes how two people I bought tickets for have recently won big. I demand to know who it is when out of nowhere 70’s funny man Tim Conway, sitting halfway down the table, says he is one of the people. Stunned, I ask how much he won and he tells me it was the “Mega”. It turns out my scoutmaster is the other beneficiary and pocketed a breezy twenty-five grand on a scratcher, a thousand of which he has already given away to a police charity of all places!
I’m so pissed off that I grab a saltshaker off the table and throw it into traffic and it explodes all over the hoods of cars racing around the inner-loop. As I’m turned around, watching the salt flying everywhere, I see my parents driving up behind us and upon exiting the car my mom tries to calm me down. I’m inconsolable; pointing to Tim Conway I exclaim, “Are you kidding me? Dorf on Golf won the mega!”
******
Dear Reader,
If you enjoyed this post and would like to learn more about Emmy Award winning comedian Tim Conway, or would like to purchase his Dorf on Golf videos please visit his website.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Snakes On A Marrakech Street
“No, No, it’s perfectly safe!”
I’m trying hard not to completely lose my shit here, they sprang out of nowhere with these snakes from all directions. My heart almost stopped at least two times.
They want me to sit down on some sort of death stool. I’ve got unidentified snakes unchaperoned around my neck, and this guy is pulling me down. I’m near panic at this point, I had never expected to be doing this, I had just paid 10 Dirham to a man to allow me take some pictures of the snakes and, this guy grabs me, takes my camera, starts taking pics then gives it to Carolyn.
I thought this fez hat coming from behind me was another snake being dropped on my head. I’m not laughing anymore, I’m not really enjoying myself, In my head I’m screaming, “YAHHH! Get this thing the hell off of me!!” This little old man, this tiny little man, shoves the snake’s head in my hand and tells me to hold him. I’ve got cobras at my feat completely sticking their heads up at me like when Indy fell into the asp pit. (“Very dangerous, you go first,” was playing on a loop in my head this whole time.) I’m sitting there shitting the pants I’m going to die in and suddenly a calm comes over me. I’m thinking could this be venom in my bloodstream? I’m in a daze that resembles a shock victim. And just as I’m beginning to calm down a slight bit, the man shoves a cobra in my face that is coiled up on a tambourine with his head poised at eye level. That thing is coming to get me!
You’d have to see it to believe it, so why don’t you: HERE
-BBB
I’m trying hard not to completely lose my shit here, they sprang out of nowhere with these snakes from all directions. My heart almost stopped at least two times.
They want me to sit down on some sort of death stool. I’ve got unidentified snakes unchaperoned around my neck, and this guy is pulling me down. I’m near panic at this point, I had never expected to be doing this, I had just paid 10 Dirham to a man to allow me take some pictures of the snakes and, this guy grabs me, takes my camera, starts taking pics then gives it to Carolyn.
I thought this fez hat coming from behind me was another snake being dropped on my head. I’m not laughing anymore, I’m not really enjoying myself, In my head I’m screaming, “YAHHH! Get this thing the hell off of me!!” This little old man, this tiny little man, shoves the snake’s head in my hand and tells me to hold him. I’ve got cobras at my feat completely sticking their heads up at me like when Indy fell into the asp pit. (“Very dangerous, you go first,” was playing on a loop in my head this whole time.) I’m sitting there shitting the pants I’m going to die in and suddenly a calm comes over me. I’m thinking could this be venom in my bloodstream? I’m in a daze that resembles a shock victim. And just as I’m beginning to calm down a slight bit, the man shoves a cobra in my face that is coiled up on a tambourine with his head poised at eye level. That thing is coming to get me!
You’d have to see it to believe it, so why don’t you: HERE
-BBB
It's Noisy at Our Junction
It’s noisy at our junction.
We live one house off Garba Jumpa Road, which is a main road in our area of the coast. All bus and most taxi service runs by us going from Bakau to Westfield and back, or Bakau to Serrekunda and back. It always has a truck or bike or cab racing by. They constantly ‘toot’ their horns.
Directly on one side of the compound where our apartment building is located sits an auto garage that bangs metal on metal all day long, It’s like someone is always knocing on our door. There is also the occasional revving of a newly fixed engine. Sometimes they blast music from the car stereos and sometimes they gamble after work in large numbers playing dice and card games while the younger kids play foosball. The gaming is actually kind of cool to watch from the second story overlooking the wall a bit. Right now I hear banging from that side of the flat. And right now…and now. It’s getting so a young man can’t take a decent afternoon nap, but I’m actually starting to getting used to it, maybe I’ll be able to live in New York City after all.
Next door on the other side of the compound is a six shop mini strip mall being built by hand. That is a source of non-stop noise usually banging of some kind. It’s been interesting to watch them building but it is loud, and smelly, as I have mentioned in another post. Now I think they are letting some of the builders live in that compound behind the shop because it has gotten much louder at night recently, music until 1:00 AM or later and yelling and, from what I can gather, the sounds of cat raping.
The mosque calls for prayers at 5:30am and four other times a day. But unlike Morocco they chant for at least twenty minutes each time. And sometimes they come on at other times to do some chanting. We are within earshot of one in particular but sometimes can hear another as well. I’m very used to this now, and since I’m turning Muslim it’s beginning to be a very welcome sound. Allah be praised! I’m not turning Muslim in the traditional sense, but you know; “When in Rome.”
There is a six year old girl with some kind of hyperactive disorder that lives beneath us who screams pretty much all day long. (And as it turns out shares my birthday) She’s cute and calls Carolyn, “Auntie Carolyn.” She’s loud. There’s always an assortment of chatter coming in through the windows. It’s weird because after some of the huge cities I’ve been to in Africa now, Dakar and Casablanca, I find it hard to believe that this is the most densely populated part of Africa, but there certainly is never a quiet moment on the street outside our window.
This Sunday, as I started Belle and Sebastian’s Dear Catastrophe Waitress, right on cue with the first song, a loud barrage of sound descended on the apartment coming from every window. We thought for a minute that the Mosque speakers were on the fritz but soon I started hearing some kind of horn through the madness of feedback and what sounded like a distorted guitar played buy the girl downstairs through blown speakers. It turned out to be the music before a speech of a speaker holding a rally about two blocks away. Soon after the music died down he came on and started yelling about something in a language I don’t speak.
I was reading yesterday, laying on the bed, and I stopped to note that I heard; the guy in the background at the rally day two, the garage was banging away on some piece of metal, the girl had some kind of plastic horn which she was running back and forth using in a not too professional way, and the mosque was calling for prayers. It was noisy.
-BBB
We live one house off Garba Jumpa Road, which is a main road in our area of the coast. All bus and most taxi service runs by us going from Bakau to Westfield and back, or Bakau to Serrekunda and back. It always has a truck or bike or cab racing by. They constantly ‘toot’ their horns.
Directly on one side of the compound where our apartment building is located sits an auto garage that bangs metal on metal all day long, It’s like someone is always knocing on our door. There is also the occasional revving of a newly fixed engine. Sometimes they blast music from the car stereos and sometimes they gamble after work in large numbers playing dice and card games while the younger kids play foosball. The gaming is actually kind of cool to watch from the second story overlooking the wall a bit. Right now I hear banging from that side of the flat. And right now…and now. It’s getting so a young man can’t take a decent afternoon nap, but I’m actually starting to getting used to it, maybe I’ll be able to live in New York City after all.
Next door on the other side of the compound is a six shop mini strip mall being built by hand. That is a source of non-stop noise usually banging of some kind. It’s been interesting to watch them building but it is loud, and smelly, as I have mentioned in another post. Now I think they are letting some of the builders live in that compound behind the shop because it has gotten much louder at night recently, music until 1:00 AM or later and yelling and, from what I can gather, the sounds of cat raping.
The mosque calls for prayers at 5:30am and four other times a day. But unlike Morocco they chant for at least twenty minutes each time. And sometimes they come on at other times to do some chanting. We are within earshot of one in particular but sometimes can hear another as well. I’m very used to this now, and since I’m turning Muslim it’s beginning to be a very welcome sound. Allah be praised! I’m not turning Muslim in the traditional sense, but you know; “When in Rome.”
There is a six year old girl with some kind of hyperactive disorder that lives beneath us who screams pretty much all day long. (And as it turns out shares my birthday) She’s cute and calls Carolyn, “Auntie Carolyn.” She’s loud. There’s always an assortment of chatter coming in through the windows. It’s weird because after some of the huge cities I’ve been to in Africa now, Dakar and Casablanca, I find it hard to believe that this is the most densely populated part of Africa, but there certainly is never a quiet moment on the street outside our window.
This Sunday, as I started Belle and Sebastian’s Dear Catastrophe Waitress, right on cue with the first song, a loud barrage of sound descended on the apartment coming from every window. We thought for a minute that the Mosque speakers were on the fritz but soon I started hearing some kind of horn through the madness of feedback and what sounded like a distorted guitar played buy the girl downstairs through blown speakers. It turned out to be the music before a speech of a speaker holding a rally about two blocks away. Soon after the music died down he came on and started yelling about something in a language I don’t speak.
I was reading yesterday, laying on the bed, and I stopped to note that I heard; the guy in the background at the rally day two, the garage was banging away on some piece of metal, the girl had some kind of plastic horn which she was running back and forth using in a not too professional way, and the mosque was calling for prayers. It was noisy.
-BBB
Morocco
For Carolyn’s midterm break we went to Morocco. We didn’t fly straight from Gambia, that would have been too easy. First we had to take a taxi to the ferry and once across the Gambia River we took a taxi to the border where we crossed into Senegal and walked to a bus depot and got a bus to Dakar where we would then fly to Casablanca.
The drive to Dakar was as expected and planned for; 7 hours in a small three row bus, 4 to a row, with extra sideways seating in the rear, enough for 5, plus the front window seat for two. We were 20 bouncing bodies tumbling over the bumps of the highway and then off-road when there were too many potholes to stay on the main road. It was quite the trip. Coming after the ferry across the Gambia River and a Taxi to the border it was a full day travel. Once out of the bus, we took a taxi to a Chinese restaurant and then one to the airport where we took the red eye to Casablanca getting there in the morning. We got a French breakfast and planned our next move.
Our next move was to splurge on a nice hotel and shower and watch TV. It was real nice, the shower was the first hot shower for Carolyn in 3 months and over a month for me. The TV was non-stop Benazir Bhutto coverage on the only two English speaking stations; CNN and BBC News. She was a wonderful leader and inspired many while she lived. In her death a nation was mourning, as played out on TV. Being the only story, the coverage became exhausting, I was really looking forward to some sports and end of the year recaps like news channels do. Not having TV for over a month and then only being able to see the same last minute clip of that guy with the gun in his hand was lame. I really feel like I suffered more than anyone else in the world due to the untimely passing of this political leader. Sure she was a female icon in the Muslim world and perhaps the one hope for Pakistan to scale back it’s extremist leanings in favor of a more democracy oriented system that would stand up to Al Queda and bring moderation to a country on the front lines in the battle on terror, but I wanted to see some NFL highlights! Really, is that too much to ask?
So I guessed we might as well leave the hotel and see some of this city since there was nothing good on TV. Casablanca, what a town! Buildings over two stories, power that stays on, Castle Beer “The Queen Of Beers”, it was great!
The Medina is the city center, it is the ancient city that was surrounded by a great wall for protection during antiquity, it has been the home to people for thousands of years, and it’s where you can get really good deals on black market DVD’s and hookahs. All the bigger cities in Morocco have Medinas and they are generally touristy type places but still house a great deal of people. Casablanca’s is pretty small but Marrakech’s Medina is huge with a large central square called the Jemma el Fina where for thousands of years people have come to trade and eat from the food stalls and see the snake charmers. Not a lot has changed in two thousand years, people still come from all over the world but now it’s less for Moroccan wool, glass and grain and more for rugs, hookahs, trinkets and Wayne Rooney jerseys. The Moroccan craftsmanship on these imported Chinese Manchester jerseys is staggering. The way they get the breast patch to look so real while misspelling van Nistelrooy is really something. Ok, so perhaps that’s a bit cynical, but let’s just say that there is plenty of stuff for western kids to grab up while mom and dad look for a rug.
I really loved both the cities we traveled to, We met some nice people and bought a beautiful lamp, ate in the food stalls. We met Ibrahm a guy who worked at a food stall, as well as his 4 other jobs, who liked to talk to us about anything but it was the best when we got into politics and exchanged the names of some political thinkers to read. He wrote down Samuel Huntington and Edward Said for me and I told him to read Chomsky and a few others. It is easy to see that most people I’ve met in my travels do not blame the average American for what Bush has done. Our reputation is not as sterling as it may have been pre-911 but people don’t put that on us. For some mentioning Bush was the first thing they did when we told them we were American. And some did even say, ‘Bush is Hitler’ but nobody at all got up in our face about it. It could have been due to the fact that as soon as they said ‘George Bush’ I said, “No, No, No please don’t associate us with him. He is not our country. Everyone hates him in America now” Or words to that effect. Also, when we actually talked for a while to people and let them know we were living in Gambia teaching West Africans they loved us. People are just friendly in general if you are friendly to them, and Americans on par are really nice people. Much nicer than Euro-trash, Dolce Gabbana fur coat wearing asses who don’t even look at the people who approach them or ask them for change. One day I said to Carolyn, lets pretend that we are from Canada today and then see what people think about Americans. I kept forgetting to do it though so I don’t have too much to report about the experiment. One time I said I was from Canada to a guy and asked if he liked it and he said, “I like Jim Carrey!” So do I my friend…so do I. Plus I couldn’t believe he knew where he was really from, I had forgotten myself. America is still the place where everyone has a relative and where many want to go if they can get a visa.
A Bit off the topic of Morocco but Canada patch wearing travelers really get my goat. You know this is what they do now, they wear a little Canada flag patch on their packs so people don’t mistake them for Americans. I’m not quite sure on how many levels I hate it but here’s what I feel; they put flags on their packs because for the first time ever they actually have a good national self esteem. Which is ironic because this new sense of national identity is still predicated on what America has done, and the fact that we’re not so popular right now, not for anything Canada has done. Canada is like the Democratic Party, they’re popular for nothing they’ve done, just that the Republicans have screwed up so much. Now I say they have just entered a new sense of self esteem because that is exactly true, Canadians have had self esteem issues for a long time, in fact their government even used public service announcements on TV to try and make them feel good about themselves. Like a, “Hey, you’re Canadian, and that’s really good…eh!” commercial before they watched an American show on TV. And now here they are, finally no longer the bitch of the Americas, and they can’t wait to take a piss on the USA. I still like Canada though and almost every Canadian I’ve met.
The hotel in Marrakech does not stock toilet paper so it was up to us to grab as much napkins and TP from other places during the day to use at night in the hotel. I actually looked around the stalls and saw no one selling TP. There were homeless kids selling travel sized tissues in the streets so I bought those on occasion but the best place to get TP was definitely at breakfast where they had a napkin dispenser on each table at our favorite omelet place with outdoor seating in the sun. So one night we were out of tissue and at about midnight I went out to the market area to see if I could find a kid selling tissues. Most shops were closed and no kids were out so I went to a food stall and asked a couple of the guys, whose job it is to stand there and shove a menu in your face and get you to sit at their stall and not one of the others right next to it that are essentially the same, if they had some napkins. One said sure and went over and grabbed me a piece of the deli paper they use when they serve food. Now I was tired at the time and had just been walking for 15 minutes looking for some freaking napkins so I said, “no, it’s to rough” they looked at me with some confusion so I said, in a tired drawl, “ I need it for my butt.” They looked at me like I was from another planet and one said, in a hilarious drawn out way, “Are you from Kentucky Fried Chicken?” I just smiled and walked away.
Dolce and Gabbana; yuck!
Could they make more hideous shit? Could European men dress more horribly? These are the questions I asked myself day in and day out while walking around Marrakech, One guy on a cell phone had a light blue shirt, tight, unbuttoned down to his navel with tacky gold chains and a hairy chest wearing painted on white pants with matching white leather shoes and a huge “DG” belt buckle leaping out over his pudgy stomach. I could not restrain myself from laughing out loud as I passed. These people dress like they’re in a gay American’s nightmare. I feel like I could go on for pages about this, and the fact, they think American style is hideous but I won’t. I’m just going to leave it there. Nothing to get mad about, these people look ridicules and that’s it. I never needed KC to help me mock a situation more in my whole life.
Oh, we went to the third largest mosque in the world while in Casablanca, to some other mosques, and an old palace in Marrakech, and a tomb or two as well. I’ve got pictures of all that touristy stuff that I’ll put up somewhere. Plus we took the Marrakech Express from Casablanca. Carolyn got a beautiful suede pullover with nice embroidery that a man was asking 800 dirhams for (1 to 8 exchange rate for US $ to DH) who we talked down to 130DH. Would never have been able to do it without our new Gambian haggle experience.
-
Saw a dog eating a dead elk from the train window as well as some dead animals hanging out a home window as we passed.
Saw a guy break his foot when a large cart blew over onto him by the food stalls, we dove at his papers that were flying everywhere while others went to him. He was carrying Suduko puzzles and was selling single cigs.
Saw a Bush chasing Bin Laden toy train set with Bush driving a tank with his head sticking out the top and Bin Laden on a cart just in front of him. It just went around and around. Metaphoric to say the least. I almost bought it but it was way too much.
Saw a little girl crying for her mom twice. I think it was a scam of some kind. Seriously, these 3 year olds are savvy in the market!
That’s about it. I took about 600 pictures and will show you each of them one by one till your eyes pop out. Just kidding, it was nice being able to take a picture without people yelling at you like they do here in Gambia. I don’t even take my camera out with me here, locals get really upset, I have a pic I’ll put up where one guy is doing just that. Sorry I haven’t put up any pics yet, but I have been taking them, and I will as soon as I can sit down and edit the good ones.
-BBB
The drive to Dakar was as expected and planned for; 7 hours in a small three row bus, 4 to a row, with extra sideways seating in the rear, enough for 5, plus the front window seat for two. We were 20 bouncing bodies tumbling over the bumps of the highway and then off-road when there were too many potholes to stay on the main road. It was quite the trip. Coming after the ferry across the Gambia River and a Taxi to the border it was a full day travel. Once out of the bus, we took a taxi to a Chinese restaurant and then one to the airport where we took the red eye to Casablanca getting there in the morning. We got a French breakfast and planned our next move.
Our next move was to splurge on a nice hotel and shower and watch TV. It was real nice, the shower was the first hot shower for Carolyn in 3 months and over a month for me. The TV was non-stop Benazir Bhutto coverage on the only two English speaking stations; CNN and BBC News. She was a wonderful leader and inspired many while she lived. In her death a nation was mourning, as played out on TV. Being the only story, the coverage became exhausting, I was really looking forward to some sports and end of the year recaps like news channels do. Not having TV for over a month and then only being able to see the same last minute clip of that guy with the gun in his hand was lame. I really feel like I suffered more than anyone else in the world due to the untimely passing of this political leader. Sure she was a female icon in the Muslim world and perhaps the one hope for Pakistan to scale back it’s extremist leanings in favor of a more democracy oriented system that would stand up to Al Queda and bring moderation to a country on the front lines in the battle on terror, but I wanted to see some NFL highlights! Really, is that too much to ask?
So I guessed we might as well leave the hotel and see some of this city since there was nothing good on TV. Casablanca, what a town! Buildings over two stories, power that stays on, Castle Beer “The Queen Of Beers”, it was great!
The Medina is the city center, it is the ancient city that was surrounded by a great wall for protection during antiquity, it has been the home to people for thousands of years, and it’s where you can get really good deals on black market DVD’s and hookahs. All the bigger cities in Morocco have Medinas and they are generally touristy type places but still house a great deal of people. Casablanca’s is pretty small but Marrakech’s Medina is huge with a large central square called the Jemma el Fina where for thousands of years people have come to trade and eat from the food stalls and see the snake charmers. Not a lot has changed in two thousand years, people still come from all over the world but now it’s less for Moroccan wool, glass and grain and more for rugs, hookahs, trinkets and Wayne Rooney jerseys. The Moroccan craftsmanship on these imported Chinese Manchester jerseys is staggering. The way they get the breast patch to look so real while misspelling van Nistelrooy is really something. Ok, so perhaps that’s a bit cynical, but let’s just say that there is plenty of stuff for western kids to grab up while mom and dad look for a rug.
I really loved both the cities we traveled to, We met some nice people and bought a beautiful lamp, ate in the food stalls. We met Ibrahm a guy who worked at a food stall, as well as his 4 other jobs, who liked to talk to us about anything but it was the best when we got into politics and exchanged the names of some political thinkers to read. He wrote down Samuel Huntington and Edward Said for me and I told him to read Chomsky and a few others. It is easy to see that most people I’ve met in my travels do not blame the average American for what Bush has done. Our reputation is not as sterling as it may have been pre-911 but people don’t put that on us. For some mentioning Bush was the first thing they did when we told them we were American. And some did even say, ‘Bush is Hitler’ but nobody at all got up in our face about it. It could have been due to the fact that as soon as they said ‘George Bush’ I said, “No, No, No please don’t associate us with him. He is not our country. Everyone hates him in America now” Or words to that effect. Also, when we actually talked for a while to people and let them know we were living in Gambia teaching West Africans they loved us. People are just friendly in general if you are friendly to them, and Americans on par are really nice people. Much nicer than Euro-trash, Dolce Gabbana fur coat wearing asses who don’t even look at the people who approach them or ask them for change. One day I said to Carolyn, lets pretend that we are from Canada today and then see what people think about Americans. I kept forgetting to do it though so I don’t have too much to report about the experiment. One time I said I was from Canada to a guy and asked if he liked it and he said, “I like Jim Carrey!” So do I my friend…so do I. Plus I couldn’t believe he knew where he was really from, I had forgotten myself. America is still the place where everyone has a relative and where many want to go if they can get a visa.
A Bit off the topic of Morocco but Canada patch wearing travelers really get my goat. You know this is what they do now, they wear a little Canada flag patch on their packs so people don’t mistake them for Americans. I’m not quite sure on how many levels I hate it but here’s what I feel; they put flags on their packs because for the first time ever they actually have a good national self esteem. Which is ironic because this new sense of national identity is still predicated on what America has done, and the fact that we’re not so popular right now, not for anything Canada has done. Canada is like the Democratic Party, they’re popular for nothing they’ve done, just that the Republicans have screwed up so much. Now I say they have just entered a new sense of self esteem because that is exactly true, Canadians have had self esteem issues for a long time, in fact their government even used public service announcements on TV to try and make them feel good about themselves. Like a, “Hey, you’re Canadian, and that’s really good…eh!” commercial before they watched an American show on TV. And now here they are, finally no longer the bitch of the Americas, and they can’t wait to take a piss on the USA. I still like Canada though and almost every Canadian I’ve met.
The hotel in Marrakech does not stock toilet paper so it was up to us to grab as much napkins and TP from other places during the day to use at night in the hotel. I actually looked around the stalls and saw no one selling TP. There were homeless kids selling travel sized tissues in the streets so I bought those on occasion but the best place to get TP was definitely at breakfast where they had a napkin dispenser on each table at our favorite omelet place with outdoor seating in the sun. So one night we were out of tissue and at about midnight I went out to the market area to see if I could find a kid selling tissues. Most shops were closed and no kids were out so I went to a food stall and asked a couple of the guys, whose job it is to stand there and shove a menu in your face and get you to sit at their stall and not one of the others right next to it that are essentially the same, if they had some napkins. One said sure and went over and grabbed me a piece of the deli paper they use when they serve food. Now I was tired at the time and had just been walking for 15 minutes looking for some freaking napkins so I said, “no, it’s to rough” they looked at me with some confusion so I said, in a tired drawl, “ I need it for my butt.” They looked at me like I was from another planet and one said, in a hilarious drawn out way, “Are you from Kentucky Fried Chicken?” I just smiled and walked away.
Dolce and Gabbana; yuck!
Could they make more hideous shit? Could European men dress more horribly? These are the questions I asked myself day in and day out while walking around Marrakech, One guy on a cell phone had a light blue shirt, tight, unbuttoned down to his navel with tacky gold chains and a hairy chest wearing painted on white pants with matching white leather shoes and a huge “DG” belt buckle leaping out over his pudgy stomach. I could not restrain myself from laughing out loud as I passed. These people dress like they’re in a gay American’s nightmare. I feel like I could go on for pages about this, and the fact, they think American style is hideous but I won’t. I’m just going to leave it there. Nothing to get mad about, these people look ridicules and that’s it. I never needed KC to help me mock a situation more in my whole life.
Oh, we went to the third largest mosque in the world while in Casablanca, to some other mosques, and an old palace in Marrakech, and a tomb or two as well. I’ve got pictures of all that touristy stuff that I’ll put up somewhere. Plus we took the Marrakech Express from Casablanca. Carolyn got a beautiful suede pullover with nice embroidery that a man was asking 800 dirhams for (1 to 8 exchange rate for US $ to DH) who we talked down to 130DH. Would never have been able to do it without our new Gambian haggle experience.
-
Saw a dog eating a dead elk from the train window as well as some dead animals hanging out a home window as we passed.
Saw a guy break his foot when a large cart blew over onto him by the food stalls, we dove at his papers that were flying everywhere while others went to him. He was carrying Suduko puzzles and was selling single cigs.
Saw a Bush chasing Bin Laden toy train set with Bush driving a tank with his head sticking out the top and Bin Laden on a cart just in front of him. It just went around and around. Metaphoric to say the least. I almost bought it but it was way too much.
Saw a little girl crying for her mom twice. I think it was a scam of some kind. Seriously, these 3 year olds are savvy in the market!
That’s about it. I took about 600 pictures and will show you each of them one by one till your eyes pop out. Just kidding, it was nice being able to take a picture without people yelling at you like they do here in Gambia. I don’t even take my camera out with me here, locals get really upset, I have a pic I’ll put up where one guy is doing just that. Sorry I haven’t put up any pics yet, but I have been taking them, and I will as soon as I can sit down and edit the good ones.
-BBB
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